


Loves Sweet Revenge

by timetravelwithcamelotsdetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelwithcamelotsdetective/pseuds/timetravelwithcamelotsdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Cold, cruel year, you killed my hopes,<br/>And took away my dreams.<br/>You showed me things just as they are,<br/>Not as in youth they seem.<br/>You showed me war,<br/>Hell, horror, more,<br/>With misery deep to crown.<br/>The cup of pain<br/>You made me drain.<br/>You broke my idol down.' - New Year 1918, by Private Reynold Potter</p><p>Because in the end, everybody dies</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentofSHIELD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentofSHIELD/gifts).



**He’s on the roof. The phone is still in his hand, he looks desperate. He’s never looked like that before. I tell him I love him, I tell him everything will be okay and he just needs to stop and think. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, the world’s greatest thinker but right now he’s just stopped thinking. He isn’t a failure, he isn’t a fake. But I can see it, he truly believes it. I step forward as he throws the phone away. He jumps.**

John wakes with a start, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. His whole body is shaking, his breath leaving his body in short rasps that he can’t control. The same visions visit him every night, a never ending nightmare. He can’t cope. Sherlock had been his life, his everything. Nothing was the same, and it would never be the same again. He’d never been a believer in God, how could he when he had seen the horrors of the battlefield? But since Sherlock had jumped, John had been clinging on to the hope that he would see him again when death came his way.

It had been nearly three years since “the incident” as John had started to call it (refusing to call it anything that would make him remember it too much), and there was still no sign that Sherlock would return. John had refused to move out of the flat, refused to tidy out Sherlock’s belongings and refused to accept that Sherlock was dead. It was a Wednesday evening; he was supposed to be going to his counsellor (Mrs Hudson had insisted) but he never went. She bustled him out of the flat at the same time every week, in the hope that he could be saved from his slow mental breakdown, but to no avail.

 His limp had returned almost a week after the funeral. He had been to the doctor (after much nagging from Lestrade, who had been surprisingly supportive) but there was nothing wrong, just like before.  He had begun waking up in the night with tears pouring down his cheeks, his eyes stinging and his head thumping. On numerous occasions Mrs Hudson had found him, scrunched up on the sofa unable to speak or even acknowledge her existence. It frightened her. The loss of Sherlock had affected everyone, of course it had, but they had all accepted that he wasn’t coming back, moved on and gotten on with their lives. But John… John was different. Without Sherlock he was vulnerable and unreachable. He wouldn’t open up to anybody; he wouldn’t speak sometimes for days on end. The only time he had mentioned Sherlock’s name had been when he had asked Mrs Hudson for the skull back, “I’m getting lonely,” he had said with a half hearted laugh, “Need it back,” he had said, his voice breaking, “It helped Sherlock, so it can help me,” and as he tears had begun to fall down his cheeks he had collapsed, trembling into her arms.

So instead of going to his counsellor, John made the agonising walk (refusing to use a taxi as they reminded him too much of Sherlock) to the scene in which he lost his best friend. He went there often, in the hope that Sherlock would return.

 

Sherlock returned there often too. Every Wednesday evening. It had only taken one chance passing of the area to realise it was the only place he would see John except for the flat. _“The limp has returned, it seems very persistent,”_ He had thought to himself sadly the first time he saw John, unable to believe his eyes.

It broke Sherlock’s heart to see John like this. John was the best man he had ever known but he, Sherlock Holmes, was tearing him apart because it wasn’t time to return. Every week, he told the taxi to pull over for five minutes, and each of those five minutes damn near killed him. He couldn’t do anything but watch, if he had John would have been in mortal danger.

 It was only one week and then he could return. The game was over, the battle was won.

A tear rolled down his cheek. John was the only person who had ever made Sherlock cry. And it was because Sherlock loved him. Fully, with no regrets. It was an emotion he had never felt before, and the realisation had shaken him deeply; but the initial shock had worn off when he realised he didn’t care, and all he wanted was John back in his life. He knew there was a chance that John wouldn’t even accept him back after the last three months; but Sherlock knew this, and although these thoughts frightened him, he was prepared for them. He knew it was only fair if John wanted nothing to do with him, who would? He was still afraid that Mrs Hudson would kick him out. Rejection was another thing Sherlock had never truly felt before. He was finding these new emotions painful, remembering, for the first time in a long while, why he had rejected all need of them, why he hid from them, still just a lonely little boy inside.

 

John returned to the flat, knowing what he was going to do. Mrs Hudson was on holiday and Lestrade and Mycroft only checked up on him on Sunday’s. No one could save him now; he was at the point of no return. He sat down on the sofa, picked up a piece of paper and began to write.

 

 

The bang shook the surrounding buildings. And it shook the cab Sherlock was riding in. He gasped, “No,” a feeling of dread building in his stomach and with his voice merely a whisper he ordered the cab to turn around, and take him instantly back to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock forced his way into the flat. The door had been locked from the inside, so with a mighty crash Sherlock broke it down with his shoulder. “JOHN!” he called out, praying that John would reply, some what confused but happy and well. There was no reply, until a small whimper came from behind the sofa. “No, no, no, no, no, John, no, I can’t… I can’t be to late, I just can’t” Sherlock’s voice had become a whisper as he leapt over to other side of the room. The sight he saw shook him to the core.

There was blood every where. It seeped out from all sorts of places on John’s body where he had cut himself on some shattered glass left on the floor; but most of it came from his head through a gaping bullet wound. He whimpered in pain, twitching slightly as each of his organs began to slowly shut down, one by one. “John,” he whispered, a waterfall of tears cascading fast down his cheeks. He picked up John’s head and cradled it to his chest, “John, I’m so sorry, please, please don’t go. I love you John. John Hamish Watson I love you so much and I am so sorry. I never… ever… meant… to harm you. John please,” he cupped John’s cheeks in his hand, gasping at the sheer whiteness of his face, “Please, don’t die John, I need you. I need you to know something John, it’s important.” John whimpered again, his eyes barely open, his pulse weak, “I love you John. I think I always have… and…” but it was too late. As he looked down he watched the last trickle of life seep from John’s eyes. Sherlock choked, his heart pounding; he felt dazed and confused. Was that really it? The love of his life was gone. Forever. He kissed John’s forehead for the first, and last time, drenched in his blood.

He continued to hold John for hours. He wasn’t sure how long but it was dark when he finally gave in and succumbed to sleep; exhausted, alone, and terribly afraid. When he awoke in the small hours, he got up off the floor, still covered in John’s blood and stumbled over to the table, where lay a small brown envelope, containing what could only be John’s note.

Inside the envelope were two more identical ones, one addressed to Mrs Hudson and one addressed to ‘Sherlock Holmes, if he ever returns’ With trembling hands Sherlock opened the letter,

 

_Sherlock_   
_If you ever find this, or if you are ever given this it's too late. I couldn't cope anymore; without you I couldn't continue. You've stolen my heart Sherlock, and when you died, my soul died with you. And what is the point of a functioning body without a soul to live through it? My love I'm sorry. You took so much with you when you left. You took my dreams with you; you took my hopes with you; you took my heart with you; all my happiness left the world. You never left my mind, all day, every day, you were there in my thoughts, I could think of nothing, no one else. Yet so much of you was left behind Sherlock. All your funny experiments, your clothes, your smell, the marks on the wall, the conversations we once had, the conversations we were yet to have; everything I could see reminded me of you, and broke me even more. My heart was in tatters. I was making so many people unhappy. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, they were all there for me, even Mycroft. But I just couldn't, I pushed them all away until I had no one. So I am coming to join you, wherever you are; to the place where we can live, together, for eternity. Because I am tired of waiting. Right now it seems you did die. Everyone else has accepted it, so I guess I must too. And this is the only way I can think of where I will ever have the chance of seeing you again. When it's over, it's over. You haven't returned, you never will. And, I think even if you did, nothing would ever be the same._   
_Good bye._   
_\- JW_

The paper was tear stained and messily folded, obviously done with shaking hands. Some parts of the letter were barely readable but Sherlock didn’t care. John had loved him. But neither of them had had the chance to say it until it was too late.

Still trembling, he picked up his phone and dialled. “Molly…” he said as the phone was answered, “Molly help… please…” and he collapsed to the floor unable to stand or speak any more…


	2. One month on...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She shook his shoulders but he didn’t wake. 
> 
> 221B was empty once more.

There was nothing he could do anymore. No way he could face the pain or the faces of those around him.

 

 

_Molly,_

_I’m sorry. Bury me with my love, bury me with John. That’s all I ask._

_I want you to know though, Molly, you always mattered. I want to thank you for all your help all those years ago. I’m sorry it didn’t work out as we had planned… but I’ve learnt the hard way that life is not always kind. It was kind when it let me meet you though. It was kind when it gave me a man to love and when it gave me a reason to live. But it was cruel when it took that man away._

_Can you say thank you to Mrs Hudson for me? And tell Mycroft… thank him too._

_I am sorry, Molly. Truly sorry._

_  
_

Sherlock looked down at the noted he had written to Molly but it didn’t feel right. He needed to tell someone the full story. Only one person would ever fully understand.

 

 

_John._

_I don’t know why I thought to write this. I suppose if they ever open it (they will, human beings are exceptionally nosey, don't you agree?) then they will understand why my life must end._

_Nothing is right anymore, my world has become imbalanced. The world is spinning beneath my feet. I feel like I'm going to fall with the briefest touch. The ground is just waiting to swallow me up whole._

_They say time's a healer. But I'm stuck in the past. Stuck here in this flat because I can't bare to leave and go anywhere else (no where would take me anyway, Mrs Hudson only did as a favour). The winter air is colder, the wind fiercer than it ever was when you were here, the warmth you radiated in your smile lost forever._

_My violin used to sing and serenade my thoughts, but now the harmonies clash and the notes scream, ringing in my ears like church bells. My heart echos my violin. Out of tune and screaming in endless pain._

_'Caring is not an advantage' I wish I had listened to Mycroft, because now his words mock me daily. But he has a point. I let myself care for you, John. I let myself love you. I let myself need you. Caring is not an advantage. His voice booms in my head as I fling myself through life, hurtling head first through mud and ice and pain and loss._

_I try to work. Functioning on caffeine, drugs, anything to keep my brain in gear. But nothing works. My hands... My hands shake all the damn time. I'm not a nervous wreck... I'm just simply, a wreck. Lestrade gave up on me yesterday. He told me… he said “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You can’t help us anymore. You haven’t been able to for a while” he said something else too, but I’d walked away._

_I see your face. A phantom face in the window. Your face that awful day as I held you in my arms; lifeless, soulless. It's not you, John. I don't want to remember you this way, but it's all I can think off. I hear you, John. Calling my name. Then I turn… you’re not there. Your voice is quieter now too… more of an echo than it was before. Sometimes I long to hear you, but sometimes I just want quiet._

_I see them, John. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade; their faces all the same. I see the pity in their eyes. I hate it. I hate it, John. Pity. Such a disgusting emotion. Horrible to be on the receiving end. They don’t say anything… no no, they just avoid it. Avoid saying your name; avoid mentioning past cases; they tread round me like I’m some sort of scared animal, ready to bolt at any moment (which I suppose, to some extent, is kind of true)._

_It is just so easy, John. So easy to turn to the drugs; back to the nightmare. I can't control it. I can't think straight without them. The drugs. The cocaine I hadn’t needed since I’d met you. It numbs the pain and blurs the edges of my despair. But it’s not enough anymore._

_It started off the day after your funeral; the need, the desperation. I woke in the morning, and couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight, like I was drowning. I could see the box from where I lay. I crawled out of bed and over to my dresser. I pulled out a needle. The effect was instant. It helped, John. I’m sorry. But then with each day that passes, my body is becoming more and more resistant to its effects. So each day I’m increasing the dosage. My body won’t be able to take it much longer._

_You know your plan, John? The one you said in your letter? To die in order to join me? Stupid… stupid plan! It makes no sense… But it's the pain, John. That's why I need to die. I’d rather die than feel this pain._

_Tonight my love… tonight I am joining you in the great beyond or whatever lies beyond this life. And even if that really is just a pit in the ground... well I guess that's better than living in this limbo. I'm going to overdose. It’s funny though, John. Who’d have thought? That I, Sherlock Holmes, would die for lost love._

_The world ~~is~~ was mine. I had centre stage, the lead role in the worlds biggest story. I felt like I could do anything... I could have done anything. The spotlight shined on me; my world was alight, almost on fire. But now you're not here..._

_I'd destroy the world to bring you back again. Destroy it in a heartbeat. I'd run till the end of time, if that was where you were waiting for me._

_And.... I suppose if this is the last time to say it… I love you. John Hamish Watson. I'm so glad I met you. I didn't know what I was missing till you found me. And thank you. Thank you for showing me what life should be like, what my life could have been like._

_Goodbye my love._

_-SH_

_  
_

The next morning, Mrs Hudson went to wake Sherlock; to ask him if he needed anything from the shops. She shook his shoulders but he didn’t wake. 

5 years. 2 lives. Numerous cases. A love that never was. And 221B was empty once more.


End file.
